


Off Bowling

by popfly



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Gapfillerpalooza, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-13
Updated: 2004-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gapfiller for season one, episode nineteen. Brian "pays respect" to his old man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off Bowling

Brian had spent most of the morning at his desk, watching the company logo tumble around his computer screen. Occasionally he would shuffle the papers on his desk, pausing to read a sentence or two, leaving trails of tapped blue dots in the margins. He left his office twice an hour to get coffee, lacing it with enough sugar to make him feel like he had live wires running through him instead of veins.

"Christ, Brian, you look like hell," Cynthia said when he brushed past her desk on his eighth bathroom trip of the morning.

Brian rolled his eyes even though he was already on his way down the hall and she wouldn't be able to see. Tact and sensitivity never _had_ been Cynthia's strong points. Then again, that was what he liked about her.

He shouldered open the bathroom door and chose the closest urinal, standing in front of it and unzipping his pants. When he was done he went to the sink to wash his hands, and he almost jumped when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.

His skin was not a normal color. He wondered briefly if pissing every sixteen minutes drained all the pigment from it. He pressed a wet fingertip to the puffy skin under his eye and then pulled it away, watching the white print darken to an ashen gray. "Jesus," he muttered, his voice sounding harsh as it bounced off the tiled walls. "I do look like hell." He twisted off the hot tap and let the water run cold, filling his palms and then splashing his face. The near-iciness shocked a little color into his cheeks even if he did now have spots on his silk tie. He grimaced and turned from the mirror to dry his hands.

He nearly ran into Marty the moment he stepped back into the hallway.

"In a rush?" Brian asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Looking for you actually."

Brian started back towards his office, Marty falling in step beside him. "And you were going to hunt me down in the can? Something must be up."

"Actually, I was wondering how you were doing."

Brian's step faltered slightly. He hated that fucking question. "I'm fine." He almost asked "Don't I look it?" but he already knew the answer and he didn't need it pointed out to him again.

"Well, you don't look fine."

 _Fuck._ Brian stopped feet from his office door and clapped a hand to Marty's shoulder. "Well, I am." He turned again and strode into his office, circling the desk and dropping into his chair. Marty stood across from him.

"I think you should take another day off, Brian. Go home, get some rest."

"I don't need any rest, I'm fine." It irritated the shit out of him that no one believed him. He didn't think about how it was because it wasn't true.

"You may think so, but I'd really rather you just take the rest of the day off."

Brian opened his mouth to argue, but he didn't fucking _want_ to argue anymore. He really didn't want to be at the office anyway, and it's not like he was doing anything remotely productive, so he nodded once and waited until Marty left to release a sigh.

*****

The loft door slid shut with a solid thud and Brian slipped his already loosened tie over his head. He undid the buttons on his shirt as he strode across the floor towards the bedroom. He stripped down to his briefs and was entertaining the thought of a long shower when the little hill of fabric near the steps caught his eye. He dug a pair of old black jeans out of a drawer and pulled them on before padding over to what was really Jack Kinney's bowling bag, the old Eastway Kings shirt draped over the top.

Brian pinched a fold of fabric between his thumb and his forefinger and pulled, unveiling the bag like it was a new installation at an art museum. He dragged the bag with him as he walked backwards to sit on the edge of the bed platform. He spread the shirt out on his lap and leaned over to lift the ball from its bag.

Brian turned the ball around and around in his hands, weighing it, his mind going back to Mikey's version of the Brian Bowls a Strike story and then replaying his speech about respect for the dead.

Then he reached for the phone.

*****

"I paged him, sir, but he hasn't answered yet. Is there something I can help you with?"

Brian tried to remember what the woman had said her name was when she answered the phone. _Good afternoon, Big Q, this is ..._ and that was where Brian drew a blank. "Uh," he started instead. "Can you give him a message?"

"I sure can," the woman replied, the tone of disdain evident under the false customer-friendliness.

"It's urgent. _Urgent_ ," Brian stressed, holding the ball up in front of his face. He could almost see his reflection in the slight shine on the surface. 

He gave the woman the message - that Mikey should drop everything and meet Brian at the bowling alley - and hung up. He set the ball back in the bag and pulled the zipper closed. Then he shook out the Eastway Kings shirt and laid it out on the bed. 

He stood at the side of the bed, staring down at the hideous red and gold shirt with the name "Jack" embroidered on the breast before he picked it back up and swung it around his shoulders, pushing his arms through the sleeves and buttoning it up. 

"You must be rolling in your grave old man, your fag son wearing your Eastway Kings shirt." Brian smoothed the front of the shirt. "Serves you right, you shit." 

He thought again to Michael's speech. Respect. He grabbed the bowling bag, his coat and keys and left.


End file.
